


Liberation

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-25
Updated: 2010-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky does a favor for a friend.  This fic was inspired by Gay Talese's wonderful book <i>Thy Neighbor's Wife</i>, about the sexual freedom movement of the late '60's and early '70's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liberation

He hasn't even finished shaving when he hears the knocking at the door. A gentle knocking, but still it makes him jump. Shit, now he's got a cut on his chin. Terrific.

"Who is it?" he calls, even though it's got to be Hutch. But the thing is, normally Hutch would knock once and then just let himself in with the key Starsky keeps on the lintel, since he knows damn well Starsky hasn't got any chick in here with him tonight. After three years living in each other's pockets, they don't stand on ceremony unless there's a good reason. The timid tapping tells Starsky Hutch is just as nervous as he is, and there's some comfort in that.

"Me."

Starsky goes to the door, dabbing gingerly at his chin with the towel around his neck, and lets his partner in. Hutch looks a little pale, a little uneasy, more than a little wrung out. But he's been looking that way for a while now.

"I'm not ready yet," Starsky says. "You're early."

"Yeah," Hutch says, his eyes taking in Starsky's bare chest, damp hair, foam-covered jaws. "Sorry."

Starsky gives him a _Hey, don't worry about it_ smile and hopes it looks like a real one. "I'll just, uh, finish up. Just be a minute."

He returns to the bathroom to wash up, and he can hear Hutch pacing the floor. He finishes shaving, dries off, runs a comb ineffectually through his hair, and puts on the jeans and long-sleeved blue shirt he'd laid out on the bed. Then it occurs to him that he doesn't know if he's supposed to wear something special. Does it matter? Should he ask Hutch?

Fuck it. He'll wear this if he wants, he thinks, and then wavers. Maybe it does matter. Maybe she cares. He'd better ask.

He goes to the door and says, "Hey."

Hutch glances up at him from his seat on the couch with the expression of a man yanked suddenly back from a mental distance.

"She care what I wear?"

Hutch looks him distractedly up and down. "I don't think so. She didn't say anything about that."

"Okay." He clears his throat. "Well, I guess I'm ready then."

Hutch looks uncertain. "You, uh, you wanna have a drink first?"

Actually, that doesn't sound like a bad idea. But Starsky rejects it immediately. Dammit, it's just sex. The day he needs a belt of booze to get it up...

"No, I'm ready. Let's go." He pauses. "Unless you want one."

Hutch shakes his head hurriedly. "No, no. Let's go."

 

*****

 

His car's in the shop again, so Hutch has to chauffeur him. He can't even drive over there under his own power, with his own familiar cracked vinyl seat under his ass. Man, after this he's taking out whatever loan he can get and buying a decent set of wheels. Fuck decent, it's gonna be beautiful. He doesn't know just what it'll be yet, but it'll be new and beautiful and fast and hot. He's had it with used junkers and cranky carburetors. He's had it with GM, too.

GM or not, Hutch's car is sweet, though he knows it's not what Hutch would have bought, even used, if Vanessa hadn't talked him into it. Or fucked him into it. Whatever. It's a '71 Eldorado, smooth and clean, and so quiet it's almost eerie. There's very little road noise, which makes it even harder, somehow, to talk. He stares out the window at the darkness, at the ocean, at the light traffic on the coast road.

"Starsk," Hutch says, and Starsky jerks in surprise.

"You're worried about this, aren't you?"

Starsky glances at him, but it's too dark to see the somber, concerned expression he knows is in Hutch's eyes.

"No," he says. "What, me worry?"

"Cut the crap. I know you're worried." Hutch turns his eyes back to the road. "You don't want to do it."

"Whaddaya mean I don't want to do it? I want to do it." He pauses, feeling his face heat suddenly. "I mean -- I want to do it because you want me to. You know."

Hutch laughs. "Take it from me, buddy, it's not so bad."

Starsky forces a grin onto his face. "I'll bet it ain't," he says, and immediately feels the blush deepen.

They're both silent for a minute, listening to the tires eat up the road.

"I need you to do it, Starsk." Hutch's voice is quiet, serious. "It might help. Sometimes it does, you know. It helps a lot of marriages."

He sounds so hopeful, so desperate, that Starsky feels a knot form in his throat. He can't say anything. He certainly can't say what utter bullshit he thinks this whole thing is. You don't fuck your buddy's wife. You just don't do it.

About two years ago, on the first vacation he'd had since joining the force, he'd gone back east for a visit. He'd spent a few days with his mom, and he'd gone to see Nick at that dump of a place he was living in then on the Lower East Side. They'd sat around, him and Nick and Nick's girlfriend Sheila, drinking beer and watching TV and kidding around. At some point Nick had gone to the john and Starsky had gone into the kitchen to help himself to another brew. And while he was standing there bent down in front of the icebox, Sheila had snuck up behind him, caught him by the hips, and rubbed herself -- literally rubbed her pussy -- against his ass. He'd dropped the bottle on the floor and almost yelled. When he turned around, she was smiling at him. She was cute, and he felt an automatic twinge, which evaporated instantly when Nick walked in. Sheila backed up, Nick said "Hey, that beer you're throwin' around costs money, y'know," and that was the end of that. He'd spent the rest of the evening avoiding his brother's eyes and agonizing over whether or not to say anything. He never did, and Nick and Sheila broke up not long after that anyway.

And, though he feels guilty about it sometimes, he knows he loves Hutch more than he loves Nick.

But of course, this is different. Hutch wants him to. Because of Vanessa. She'd read some book, seen some movie -- _film_ , she'd say, and so would Hutch -- read some goddamn article in _Cosmopolitan_ , and now she thought open marriage or wife swapping or swinging or whatever the hell they called it was the way to go when your relationship was going down the toilet. And Hutch had listened to her because he was desperate. He wanted to believe it. Starsky can't imagine what Hutch must have thought, must have felt, must have said, when she'd first brought up the idea. Just the thought of that conversation makes him shudder. But -- after how much resistance Starsky didn't know -- Hutch had gone along with it.

And now Starsky's going along with it. For Hutch.

"I'll be there, you know," Hutch is saying.

Starsky looks out the window and laughs. "What, in case I get lost?"

"That's the way it's going to be. The three of us. I told you."

Starsky fingers the band-aid on his chin. "Yeah, you told me."

"You've done it before."

"I've done it with girls, buddy, two girls and me." And not very much, either. Maybe half a dozen times. And nobody was married to anybody, and nobody was in love with anybody.

"Well, this'll be your chance to -- you know, experience something new. New experiences are important."

Hutch sounds so reasonable Starsky almost laughs again. He's not sure how much of this Hutch actually believes, and how much is a direct quote from _The Joy of Sex_.

"I love her," Hutch says softly.

Starsky glances over and sees Hutch's knuckles, tight, clenched on the wheel.

"Yeah," he says. "I know."

 

*****

 

Vanessa's wearing regular clothes, thank God. He doesn't know what he expected when he and Hutch walked into the foyer. A tiny black nightie? Bunny ears and a tail? Saran wrap?

But she's a fox in anything, of course, including simple white slacks and a white sweater. The sweater's made of some kind of itchy stuff. Starsky knows that because she comes right to him and hugs him, and the itchy stuff tickles his nose.

He glances automatically at Hutch standing behind her, expressionless. She's never hugged him before, not even early on when he was trying so hard to like her. He doesn't know whether he's supposed to return the hug or not, but he doesn't. Vanessa doesn't seem to mind. She releases him quickly and steps back.

"Thank you for coming, David." She smiles at him, a hint of flirtation in her eyes, but it's not blatant. She always calls him that -- David, not Dave, not Starsky. He doesn't know why she does it, and for some obscure reason, it annoys him.

"Yeah, well," he says. "Nothin' good on TV."

Vanessa laughs. "Come sit down. Would you like a drink?" She leads the way into the living room and sinks down on the sofa. "Ken and I were going to have one, weren't we?" She glances up at Hutch expectantly.

Starsky seats himself in a chair a good ten feet from her. "Uh, no thanks." Why does everyone think he needs a drink?

"Come on, Starsk," Hutch says softly. "It'll help you relax." He's already making his way toward the little bar in the corner.

"I'm relaxed, okay?" he snaps, and immediately regrets it when he sees Vanessa regarding him with amusement.

His lips tighten. "Okay. Sure. Whatever you're having, Hutch."

"I'm having a nervous breakdown, buddy." Hutch turns around with a bottle in his hand and a thin smile on his lips. "Shall we make that two, or three?"

"Ken -- " Vanessa begins warningly.

"Just two, then," Hutch says, turning back to the bar and busying himself with ice. "That's what I thought."

 _Oh God_ , Starsky thinks, looking from one of them to the other. _What a fuckin' disaster this is gonna be_.

Hutch brings Vanessa and Starsky their drinks, then fetches his own and folds his long body onto the sofa next to his wife. Starsky sips without enthusiasm at his vodka with a twist. Hutch and Vanessa don't look at each other. Silence stretches out, filling the room like a kind of noxious vapor.

"Well," Starsky says at last, depositing his half-empty shot glass on the coffee table, remembering at the last instant to slide a coaster under it. "Kids, this is one swell party."

Hutch turns his head, a faint smile on his face, a trace of gratitude in his eyes. But before he can speak, Vanessa places a hand lightly on his knee and says, "Ken, I want to talk to David alone."

Hutch gives her a long look and then says, "I'll wait in the bedroom." He gets up, taking his drink with him, and leaves the room. Starsky hears a door open and shut down the hall.

 _Oh Jesus, now what?_

"Come here," Vanessa says, and pats the cushion beside her. "Whatever you're dying to ask me, now's your chance." Her lips quirk into a smile. "And I know it's something. You've been looking at me like a snake at a mongoose."

Starsky isn't about to move from his chair, and the mongoose reference means nothing to him, but that doesn't matter. He's got a question, all right.

"I just want to know one thing." He leans forward, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped in front of him. "Why me? It ain't because you can't live another day without nailin' my ass."

Vanessa looks down into her glass and laughs. When she looks back up, trailing her finger around the rim, her face is so lit up it shocks him. She's gorgeous when she laughs.

She raises the glass to her lips, and her voice is heavy with amusement. "Maybe you're underestimating yourself."

"Don't bet on it, honey." He reaches for his neglected drink and knocks it back.

The laughter fades out of her eyes and her tone grows serious. "Do you think for one moment that he'd even consider doing this with anyone else? Some stranger, someone he didn't even know -- "

"I ain't the only friend he's got."

"You're more than a friend. He loves you, don't you know that?"

"I know it," Starsky says, softly. He hadn't known that _she_ knew.

"You're the only one I could have suggested, the only one he wouldn't be jealous of."

"You don't think he's gonna be jealous?"

Vanessa looks him straight in the eye. "He might be, at that." She holds his puzzled gaze for a moment, and then looks away, out the picture window at the night. "Ken wants to be liberated. He wants to get past jealousy and possessiveness and ownership. He wants to believe that women and men can have all the same feelings. But it's hard for him. It's hard for most people, I'm sure."

Starsky studies her profile. "But not for you?"

"No, it's hard for me, too," she says, turning back to face him. "That's one reason I wanted to do this."

Starsky shakes his head slowly. "I gotta tell you, I _still_ don't know why the hell you wanted to do this."

She smiles again and stands, holding out a hand to him. "Then stop wondering about it and I'll show you. Come on."

 

*****

 

Hutch and Vanessa's bed is round. It's covered with a blue satin comforter that looks slick enough to skate on, and Starsky's afraid to sit down on it. But that doesn't matter because he's too keyed up to sit down at all, even after Vanessa tells him to. He stands, rooted to the spot, and watches Hutch and Vanessa kissing. They're standing at the foot of the bed, arms around each other's waists, just kissing like any other couple might do, but Hutch seems as uncomfortable as he has all evening. He looks weirdly as if he's the interloper here, not Starsky, and as Starsky watches, he peers over Vanessa's shoulder, eyes darting from side to side. He's looking, Starsky realizes with a jolt, for him. Automatically, he moves into sight range and meets Hutch's gaze.

Vanessa reaches under Hutch's shirt and strokes his back slowly, and Hutch's eyes fall shut again. He looks marginally more relaxed, and his own hands slip under Vanessa's sweater.

Starsky looks away, wondering yet again just what the hell he's supposed to be doing. His eyes take in the deep shadows in the corners of the room, and the flickering candles on the twin nightstands. The bedside phone, he notices, is off the hook.

"David," Vanessa says, and he turns back quickly. Hutch has backed off a pace or two, into the shadows, and she's holding out her arms to Starsky.

Again, he can't stop himself from glancing at Hutch first. It's crazy, but he can't shake the idea that he needs to ask permission. He sees Hutch nod encouragement behind Vanessa's back, but Vanessa says sharply, "Stop it. You're here because both of us want you here. Don't you understand that yet?"

He feels his patience splinter. "Okay," he snaps. "Okay, okay." And he takes her face in his hands and kisses her.

Her lips are soft and warm. And wet, from Hutch's kisses. Starsky thinks about that, and it doesn't repel him. He'd been with a hooker once -- well, he'd been with a few -- but this one hadn't cleaned up from the last guy she'd had. It was years ago, while he was stationed at Fort Bragg, and he hasn't given it much thought since, but now it comes back to him with a rush. The guy brushing past him on the stairs, fumbling with his zipper as he went down. He was young, tall, good-looking, with a civilian haircut. He remembers wondering, bizarrely, why a guy like that was paying for it, and then laughing at himself for wondering. And he'd gone in, and she'd been on the bed, and she'd said in a lazy Southern accent, "Make it quick, soldier, okay? You're number seven tonight, and I got to sleep sometime." And the smell and the heat and the loose slickness between her legs and the thought of seven, _seven_ , had gotten to him and he'd made it quick, all right.

Vanessa pushes against him, her mouth opening to his tongue, her hands sliding through his hair. She feels good, curvy and sweet, and he drops his hands from her face to her hips to pull her closer. But his hands settle on Hutch's hands instead, and he jumps, his mouth leaving Vanessa's. Hutch is standing behind her, holding her hips, kissing the back of her neck under the pinned-up mass of her hair.

Starsky watches, and his hands press down on Hutch's, and he can feel the bones, and beneath them, Vanessa's softness as she moves back against Hutch and forward against him. He's hard, damn hard now, and he knows she can feel it. He wonders if Hutch is hard yet.

He kisses her again, and she moans, but then she twists away from him, and peels Hutch's hands off her body and she's free. "Get undressed," she says. She slips the sweater over her head and tosses it across a chair.

He looks at Hutch -- face flushed, lips parted, eyes wide -- and then back at Vanessa in time to see her hands go behind her back to the closure of her bra. He feels a jolt, because he loves to watch that, loves to see hooks coming undone, straps slipping off shoulders, tits springing free, but Hutch steps up behind her, says "I'll do that," and then the bra is on the floor and her breasts are cupped in Hutch's hands, and somehow that's even prettier. Starsky lets out his breath and goes to work on his own clothes.

He hears Vanessa behind him saying, "Don't, not yet" and Hutch muttering something under his breath, and a rustling of fabric and scratching of zippers, and then Vanessa's walking past him, naked, hair swinging loose now, to the bed. She turns down the covers and slips in and pats the mattress on each side of her. "Come on," she says. "Come _on_."

He doesn't move until Hutch says huskily, "Starsk, come on" and climbs in with Vanessa, on her left, his bare skin golden in the candlelight. Starsky follows, and then she's in his arms, pressing herself to him, running her hands down his back to his ass. For a second, he can't breathe. He ducks his head and lowers his mouth to her breast, and his tongue finds her taut pink nipple, and she moans and pushes up to him. Reflexively he sucks at her, but then he hears Hutch's voice, low, breathless, whispering, "Van, Van." Starsky raises his head, letting her breast slip away.

Vanessa bucks impatiently. "Keep going," she says, pulling Starsky's head back down, and then, "Both of you."

He feels Hutch next to him, and looks sideways to see Hutch's mouth perhaps an inch from his own, closing gently around Vanessa's other nipple. The sight is so familiar -- the full lips that smile at him from the passenger seat, the gold lashes downswept, the blond hair straggling untidily over the forehead damp with sweat, as if they'd just chased a perp down an alley -- that he feels a sudden warm impulse to kiss Hutch's cheek. Instead, he moves slightly closer and presses the right side of his face to Hutch's left. He hears Hutch make a small, contented sound in his throat.

His hands try to move down her body, but Hutch is in the way. Starsky's right hand ends up stroking along Hutch's ribcage, feeling the skin rippling, drawing back beneath his fingers. Hutch is ticklish.

It's so good, the sweet swell of flesh at his lips, the warmth of Hutch's big body beside him, Vanessa's thigh between his legs giving him just enough leverage to slide against. Fuck, he's going to come, right here, all over her, all over Hutch too, and that thought almost pushes him over. She hasn't come, but he doesn't even care. He pushes himself up as far as he can and rocks against her, and she grabs him hard by the root, squeezing until he gasps, "Jesus God, stop it!"

"Christ, Van!" Hutch cries. He grabs her hand and peels it off, and Starsky draws in a long, pained breath. Little stars dance for a moment before his eyes.

"Fuck me," Vanessa says, her voice soft but firm. "I want you to fuck me while Ken watches. He told you that. I know he told you."

He doesn't remember what Hutch told him. He'd been too stunned by the whole idea to absorb the details. He looks at Hutch and sees him moving away a bit, giving him space. He looks back at Vanessa, and she takes his hand and plants it at the juncture of her thighs. She's wet, dripping. He wonders when was the last time Hutch fucked her. Maybe it was right before he came to pick Starsky up. Maybe she's still wet from that. Insane. He knows she couldn't be, but God it makes him wild to think of sliding in where Hutch had been, where Hutch had come. Breathing hard, he extends a finger and strokes her clit. Maybe Hutch had licked it for her. _Oh, Jesus_... Without thinking, he starts to crawl down her body, to lower his head, but she squirms under him and pulls his chin up.

"No," she gasps. "Just fuck me."

So he does. She's not very tight, but she makes up for it. She has thigh muscles he can barely believe, until he remembers dimly Hutch telling him once that she loves ballet dancing, had even done it professionally for a while before they met. She wraps her legs around him and lets him work for a while, panting with him, moaning with him, drawing her fingernails down his back, but when she comes she squeezes him so hard he almost shouts again. He shoves back frantically, and he's done.

He collapses on top of her, turning his head to the right so he can breathe. He keeps his eyes shut for a few seconds because he suspects he'll see nothing but blackness if he opens them right away. It's like that a lot. He's never actually lost consciousness, but fucking himself blind, temporarily, is a pretty common occurrence.

When he does open his eyes, the only thing he can see is Hutch staring at him with the kind of tenderness in his eyes Starsky's only seen there once before, when he got shot in the leg last year and Hutch rode with him in the ambulance, making dumb jokes and keeping at least one hand on him the whole way. This time there's no tearing pain to distract him from it. He looks back, awed. Shit, if he'd watched a show like he and Vanessa just put on, he wouldn't feel tender. He'd feel horny enough to scream.

"You're heavy," Vanessa says quietly, and he raises himself off her, sighing, and rolls to the side. From there he still has a good view of Hutch smiling at him. Starsky smiles back, a goofy, dopey smile, but that's all he can manage at the moment. Then he glances downward and feels the smile dissolve. Hutch has a huge erection. He's stroking it, slowly, carefully, rhythmically.

Starsky's seen guys jerk off before, of course, in porn theaters, in the high school locker room, under women's windows just before he collared them for public indecency. But it was always furtive, secret. You weren't supposed to know they were doing it. Hutch is looking him straight in the eye.

He doesn't realize what he's going to say until he says it. "Hey, that as hard as it looks?" Because if it is, he's damned if he can see how Hutch can stand to go so slow. Starsky's fucked out, and he feels impatient just watching. He'd like to show him how it's done.

"I don't know, partner," Hutch says. His voice is thick, heavy, and as he speaks, he closes his eyes. "How hard does it look?"

"Ken," Vanessa says softly. Hutch's eyes open suddenly and he looks down at her almost guiltily.

"I'm sore." Without another word she gets up, crawls over Starsky's legs, and walks into the bathroom.

Starsky looks after her, torn between admiration for her round, swaying ass and indignation at her abandonment of Hutch. He turns back and meets Hutch's eyes again. "I ain't," he says. "C'mere."

Hutch's face flushes even darker. "Starsk, I -- "

"Hey, don't talk back," Starsky whispers. "You think she cares? C'mere."

"God," Hutch murmurs, but he moves closer, his hand still moving, more urgently now, over his cock.

Starsky can't take his eyes off it. He'd thought, as far as the random impressions passing through his mind over the past few moments could be called thinking, that he'd like to jerk Hutch off. Now he isn't so sure. That's nothing, really. Anybody can do that. And sucking it -- his mind hastily dodges the thought. But Hutch looks so -- so lost. So sad. And he's looked that way for so long now. Starsky's watched him staring off into space when he thinks he's unobserved, listened to him make up weak excuses for having a beer with him after their shift instead of going home to his wife, seen him slide into Starsky's car in the mornings -- tight-lipped, hollow-eyed -- after another night of God knows what with Vanessa.

He lies back, flat, and holds out his arms. "Right here."

Hutch crawls carefully on top of him, holding himself up with his hands.

Starsky puts his hands on Hutch's back and pulls him closer, until their bodies meet. Hutch's eager cock touches Starsky's tired one, and Starsky shifts beneath him. "Up a little," he says, and feels Hutch's breath catch raggedly as his cock comes to rest this time against Starsky's belly.

"Right there," Starsky says, petting Hutch's back gently. "Just rub it right there, buddy."

Hutch hesitates only a moment before sliding forward. Starsky feels it, hot and hard and damp against him.

Hutch whispers, "Fuck, Starsk," and thrusts again, harder, more desperate.

Starsky rubs his back. "Come on," he breathes. "Come on, take it. Come on."

"You feel so good," Hutch chokes out, and then he's rocking fast and hard, and his breath comes in moans, and Starsky watches, fascinated, as his eyes squeeze shut and his lips draw back from his teeth. Starsky's not going anywhere, not yet, but still he feels an answering throb inside, a deep twinge of sympathy. _Buddy, it ain't me that feels good. It's you_.

The hot gush of fluid, when it comes, is almost, almost enough to get him up again. That, and Hutch settling, gasping, on his chest, his warm breath stirring the hair there, his soft lips laying gentle kisses just below Starsky's collarbone. Starsky raises his hands from Hutch's back and threads his fingers into Hutch's hair to hold his head in place. He likes those little kisses.

He holds Hutch for a while, eyes closed. He supposes they should clean up. He can feel the stickiness between their bodies, but he doesn't feel like moving. Hutch doesn't say anything, and he doesn't try to get up. He's heavy, but Starsky doesn't mind. It feels good, being held down. Peaceful.

He's running his hands over Hutch's back, feeling the ridge of his spine, noting with fascination the softness of the skin and the hardness of the muscles beneath it, when he hears the bathroom door open. He turns his head on the pillow and sees Vanessa standing there. She's wearing a silky robe and a neutral expression.

Starsky shifts slightly, and Hutch raises his head, startled. He looks at his wife, then back at Starsky, and then slowly moves off him to the side. Starsky sees him watching Vanessa, a wary look in his eyes, as she approaches the bed.

She sits down on the edge, next to Starsky, who moves his legs to make room for her. She doesn't look at him, or at Hutch either.

"I think we're finished here," she says. "Aren't we?"

Starsky looks from one of them to the other.

After a moment Hutch says, "I'll, uh, I'll wash up and take Starsky home." He gives Starsky one more long look, then slides out of bed, gathers up his clothes, and walks into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Starsky hears the water begin to run in the shower.

Vanessa turns and looks at him, waiting. What the hell she expects him to say, he has no idea.

He gets up, grabs a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand, and scrubs hard at his chest for a moment before picking up his clothes. He's still sticky, still damp, and somewhere along the way he's lost the band-aid from his chin. But he's not waiting for Hutch to finish in the bathroom, not with Vanessa's eyes on him. He can't get dressed fast enough.

"I don't blame you," she says. "I know it's not your fault."

He looks up from zipping his fly. She's looking away from him now, at the wall.

"What's the matter?" he asks. "He get a little too liberated for you?"

He expects an angry comeback, but Vanessa just smiles and pushes the hair back from her face. "I wanted to know, and now I do," she says. "Stupid of me to have married a cop in the first place, I suppose. What woman could break that warrior bond?" She laughs.

"It ain't because he's a cop," Starsky says. Does she really think cops can't have happy marriages?

"Isn't it?" Vanessa turns penetrating eyes on him. "If he ever gets shot in the line of duty, I won't be the one holding him while he bleeds, will I?"

Starsky finishes tying his shoes and stands. "I'll wait for him in the car," he says, and walks out.

 

*****

 

They don't talk all the way back to Starsky's place. Starsky rolls the window down and lets the swift, salty breeze cool his face. He's looking forward to getting home, to showering, to falling into bed and letting all the evening's weirdness slip away. He glances to his left, at his partner's familiar profile, silent and serious in the dark, and he wonders what Hutch has to look forward to.

They pull up at last outside Starsky's building, Hutch guiding the Eldorado smoothly into a tight parking space. Sucker rides like a yacht. Starsky can barely feel it as it glides to a stop.

"Beautiful, man," he says, and glances again at Hutch. "I mean, this thing is really beautiful."

"I hate it," Hutch says flatly. He cuts the engine and leans back with a sigh against the headrest. His fingers tap unconsciously on the wheel.

"Ah, don't say that. Maybe it's not really your bag, but -- "

"You want to buy it?"

Starsky can't help laughing. "Uh, no. No." He hesitates. "Vanessa wants you to keep it, right?"

Hutch looks out the side window. "I don't think it really matters anymore."

There's a long silence before Starsky speaks again. "You, uh, you wanna come up and have a beer or somethin'? Watch TV?"

Hutch turns back to him. "You know what I was thinking about doing? I was thinking about driving all night. Just everywhere. All around town, up in the hills, down the coast till it starts to get light. Listen to that FM station with that weird DJ, the one who sounds like he's permanently stoned." He laughs a little. "You know the one I mean?"

Starsky grins. "Yeah, I know. We gotta work tomorrow, though, remember? Fuckin' Sunday shift."

Hutch sighs. "Yeah."

"Hey," Starsky says. "You can stay here if you want. You know you can. Anytime. I mean, if you -- well, if you don't wanna go home."

"Still?" Hutch asks. His voice is very quiet.

"Whaddaya mean, still? What's changed, huh? Nothing's changed. You need something, you come to me. That ain't changed."

Hutch glances downward and smiles. "Okay." He hits a button, and there's a _thunk_ as the doors unlock automatically.

"What's on TV that you wanted to watch?" Hutch asks as they meet at the bottom of the stairs.

Starsky hadn't wanted to watch anything, really. But there's usually some horror movie on late on Saturday nights. "I dunno," he says. "Monster movie, maybe. Some Japanese thing." He hesitates, uncertain, but only for a second. "Hey, if you get scared, you can hang on to me, y'know."

With one foot on the bottom step, Hutch turns to face him. There's just enough light in the parking lot for Starsky to see the tension, the strain, gone from his eyes.

"Thanks," he says. "I will."


End file.
